


Following A Feeling

by UniversallyEcho



Category: Soy Luna (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Basically just the self-indulgent fic no one asked for, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Like 5 years later kind of difference, Male-Female Friendship, So each character can grow and develop on their own, because Mambar could have been great lovers to enemies to friends, if the sl writers weren't cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversallyEcho/pseuds/UniversallyEcho
Summary: Matteo meets a girl. Matteo meets a girl, and he thinks that she could be ‘The One’.The act itself of him declaring this so strongly and out of the blue is outlandish enough to peak her interest and negate any real arguments about her own recent experiences with feelings of heartbreak.Or; Matteo can't brew coffee to save his life so now Ámbar has to accompany him to his work every day, thank god there's a cute barista who catches her interest.
Relationships: Luna Valente/Matteo Balsano, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ámbar Smith/Simón Álvarez
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Following A Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song "I Don't Know Why" by NOTD and Astrid S

**i.**

There are days where Ámbar thinks that she doesn’t give Matteo enough benefit of the doubt. She tends to give him a hard time. Being such close friends since childhood means that she knows his innermost insecurities, knows every demon that’s ever plagued his mind and also that she knows the name of every girl he’s gone to third base with underneath the bleachers of the football field. That is, when he manages to actually ask for a name, otherwise she just refers to them by the class Matteo skipped to take part in the incident. 

She thinks, sometimes, that she lets these judgements cloud her opinion of him. She still sees him as the immature little boy with mud on his pants and marker on his cheek that raced across class to greet her on her first day of kindergarten, the same boy who later on stole her juice box and then yelled ‘cooties’ when she tried to wrestle for it back. She forgets that he’s grown just as much as her, if not more, and into a better person than she often gives him credit for. She shouldn’t find this surprising, seeing how their friendship is the only one that’s managed to survive the test of time and only a truly understanding soul could survive her explosive teen years, but she still does. 

So there are days where she wonders if her inherent questioning of his character is actually unfounded, if maybe she needs to reconsider how she views him and stop berating him to mature when it’s her own perspective that’s prohibiting her from seeing the new evolved side of Matteo. Today is not one of those days.

(9:28 am)

Ámbar: I told you your dad was going to get mad about the party

Matteo: I remember that

(9:29 am)

Ámbar: I insisted that getting a yacht was going overboard

Matteo: I see that now

Matteo: To be fair though, the yacht really was the ‘pièce de résistance’

Ámbar: It really wasn’t. I also specifically told you to make sure no one posted anything on social media

(9:30 am)

Matteo: If I don’t instagram it, did it even really happen?

(9:32 am)

Ámbar: Matteo.

Matteo: Ámbar.

Matteo: it’s not a big deal. A lot of people have part-time jobs

(9:33 am)

Ámbar: Poor people have part-time jobs

Matteo: I guess that makes me poor then 

Ámbar: Don’t even joke about something like that

Matteo: It’s just a couple of months, I can last a couple of months 

(9:33 am)

Ámbar: If it’s just about the money, I can lend you enough to cover everything that was damaged during the event

Ámbar: It’s not like the money will be getting any use anyway

Matteo: What happened to that plush coat you wanted?

Ámbar: The majority online have decided it’s too ‘haute couture’ to be cool

Ámbar: It’ll look bad if I buy it now, like I’m actively fighting against the mass

Matteo: Either way, I don’t need money 

Ámbar: You’re sure? 

(9:34 am)

Ámbar: Because you can’t just be doing this for the pleasure of it 

(9:35 am)

Matteo: I’m doing this because it’s a good learning experience and hard work builds character 

(9:37 am)

Ámbar: Since when do you care about hard work? 

Matteo: It’s my new year's resolution 

Ámbar: It’s september 

Matteo: Even more reason to start immediately 

(9:39 am)

Ámbar: So they really hired you? 

Matteo: Yes 

Ámbar: Okay 

(9:40 am)

Ámbar: You’re going to work four days a week? 

Matteo: Yes

(9:41 am)

Ámbar: Even if it’s the weekend, you still have to go 

Matteo: I figured 

(9:42 am)

Ámbar: You can’t be late either, they get mad about that

Matteo: I know what attendance is Ámbar

Matteo: Okay, I know I act like I don’t but I swear I do

(9:45 am)

Ámbar: And they’re paying you 

Matteo: Yes 

Ámbar: In money? 

Matteo: No, in cake pops 

(9:45 am)

Matteo: Yes, by cheque, every two weeks 

Ámbar: You’ll need a bank account 

Matteo: I have a bank account

Ámbar: A bank account not controlled or connected to your father

Matteo: I’ll make a new bank account 

Ámbar: Checkings and savings 

Matteo: Okay 

(9:47 am)

Ámbar: Okay

(9:49 am)

Ámbar: Do you even know how to make coffee?

**ii.**

It turns out he does not, in fact, know how to make coffee. 

The first time she walks into the small café, located on the corner of a worn down quaint street she had no idea ever existed, she splutters out the aforementioned drink as soon as the liquid touches her lips. It’s cold, bitter, not in a good way, and tastes strikingly like dish soap. 

It’s offensive quite honestly, both to her and her taste buds. She almost curses Matteo out for making her come all this way just for an extremely sub-par drink, _she doesn’t even feel comfortable calling it coffee_. Everything works out in the end though. There’s a cute barista working with Matteo who chuckles amusedly as she grimaces in disgust while pouring the chemical acid in the trash and offers to make her a new one.

“On the house,” he states, his voice low and smooth and deliciously enticing as he explains his creation as, “a small dark roast cortado with honey syrup. I promise you won’t want to spit out this one.”

If Ámbar insists that next day to accompany Matteo to his shift it’s because she’s decided someone needs to watch over him to ensure no more disastrous concoctions are made. It’s certainly not because she can’t seem to get a certain laugh out of her thoughts. 

**iii.**

(7:32 pm)

Ámbar: I swear I am leaving this restaurant and never coming back

Matteo: The date can’t possibly be going so terribly already

Ámbar: It is

Matteo: Ámbar it’s been like ten minutes

Ámbar: The worst ten minutes of my life

(7:33 pm)

Matteo: You said the same thing when Jazmín dragged you to that VIP Prada early release event, and yet you survived that didn’t you?

Ámbar: Barely, I still have scratch marks on my arm from that peplum-crazed lady

(7:34 pm)

Matteo: So what is it this time?

Matteo: Crooked nose? Too rich? Eyes too far apart? Monotone voice? 

Ámbar rolls her eyes at Matteo’s blatant disregard for her concerns. It was just like him to not take her seriously in moments of distress. Okay, so sure, she may have overreacted about dates she’d been on in the past, and maybe she has always been a little extra picky when it comes to guys. But her scrutiny is totally valid. The role of a single woman is hard, you have to always be completely aware and on the lookout for creeps, like potential serial killers and guys who refuse to pay for the first meal, though one distinctly more alarming than the other.

Ámbar Smith knows how to date. She’s practically a pro at it. What with the increasingly spiraling amount of late night dinners at overpriced restaurants and hours spent at yawn-worthy mainstream comedy movies in a nearby theatre. So sue her for picking apart all possible candidates at first introduction in hopes of decreasing the amount of time and money she wastes in a lousy relationship. If a guy couldn’t keep her happy and engaged for a single date, how on earth was he going to do so when they had established a long term relationship?

“I’m honestly shocked. You’re really not as spoiled and narcissistic as I expected.” 

The words from the man in front of her snap Ámbar out of her thoughts. She looks up from the plate of her roasted truffle and beets and blinks in confusion.

“Um,” she starts, “thank you?”

He chuckles wryly, oblivious to how his words really aren’t as much of a compliment as he thinks they are. “I mean most of the girls I’ve gone out with just spend the entire date trying to find more ways for me to waste money on them. And, seeing your instagram and all, I assumed you’d be one of them, you know?”

_No, she does not know_. “Sure.” 

Ámbar thinks that this perhaps is a far too innocent estimation of how greedy she actually is, but she chooses not to correct him. She’d have to actually care about his opinion to do that. She briefly reflects though, that maybe if he stopped acting like his family owning a winery was a personality trait and actually developed one then girls would have something more substantial to find him attractive for. 

Instead, she takes a sip of her iced lemon water and nods disinterestedly as he continues sharing vignettes about his private school days. She sends a quick reply to Matteo on her phone inconspicuously under the table, not planning to message him again until this ordeal is over, and let’s her mind wander about how she’s going to finish off her night. She's thinking a glass of wine and normal serving of food, unlike the pea-sized salad placed in front of her.

(7:57 pm)

Ámbar: He has a pony. 

Ámbar: Like his own fucking pony. 

Ámbar: His name is Maynard James the third. 

(7:59 pm)

Ámbar: The pony, not my date.

Ámbar: Oh my god, could you imagine if someone was named Maynard James?

(8:00 pm)

Ámbar: Fuck

(8:02 pm)

Ámbar: Matteo

(8:03 pm)

Ámbar: Matteo, his tinder profile said his name was M.J

Ámbar: Does this mean what I think this means? 

(8:05 pm)

Ámbar: Would it be rude to ask who was born first?

**iv.**

“I feel like you’re judging him too quickly.”

Matteo says to her, his eyes focused solely on the brown paper cup sitting on the counter in front of him as he struggles to fit a small plastic lid on a medium sized opening. 

“You do?” Ámbar replies, admittedly a little distracted herself with a certain someone currently cleaning out the espresso machine.

Matteo’s next words hold a more enthusiastic tone as he realizes the reason for his struggling and quests in the cabinet above him for a more appropriately sized cap,“Yeah, I mean, he’s a solid contender.”

“He is?” 

“Totally.”

The woman standing next to Ámbar grumbles a ‘finally’ as Matteo passes her the not-so-scalding-hot-anymore americano before making a scene of not tipping, _rude_ , and making her way out of the store. 

“I mean he complimented you, and it wasn’t even a superficial compliment about your hair or something. It was a compliment on your personality, how many guys have you been on a date with who’ve done that?”

Ámbar narrows her eyes at him questioningly, “I don’t think saying I look less shallow than he thought I would be based on my picture actually counts as a profound compliment.”

Admittedly he was one of the lesser repulsive people she’d told Matteo about, so she thinks his positive mentality is a little understandable. On the other hand, she can’t imagine spending another second in an enclosed proximity with him, and it’s not just because he smells like he bathes in axe cologne.

They say you accept the love you think you deserve and Ámbar has too high of a self-esteem to settle for any man who still has his mom do laundry for him. Or who’s named after his family pony.

Matteo seems to disagree, “I say give him another chance.”

Ámbar shakes her head, exasperated at Matteo’s interpretation but too tired of explaining herself to continue the conversation. Instead her eyes trace the other bartender’s figure as he stands wearily from his bending position. His strides are purposeful but not necessarily confident or boastful. His back muscles ripple against his sheer white t-shirt, a stark contrast to his front covered by the opaque store-policy apron. The sight of soft masculinity making the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly. 

“You can’t just keep rejecting every single person who goes on a date with you. Lower your standards a little, otherwise you’ll end up sad, old and alone with like five cats and I won’t take care of them when you die, I already told you I’ll just release them into the wild.”

The nagging voice persists until Ámbar is forced to return her attention to the subject at hand, “Matteo, be honest. If you want me to date him because you want him to bring us to his home stables and show you the pony just say so.”

He doesn’t take a second to hesitate, answering sternly, “I want you to date him so he shows us his pony.”

She knew it. It’s her own fault, really, for even offering information about her dates in the first place. She can’t have him getting attached like this, it’s not healthy. Besides, she doesn’t want to deal with the consequences when she evidently breaks it off with him.

“Matteo, just apologize to your dad for the party and he’ll relinquish revoking your credit cards. That way you can buy yourself your own pony.”

“You just want me to stop working.”

Ámbar unconsciously finds herself searching for the mysterious co-worker, who she finds currently helping an older woman walk over the crooked edge of the doorway. ‘No,’ she wants to tell Matteo, ‘that’s quite the opposite of what I want.’

As always, too preoccupied with himself to notice Ámbar’s yearning he continues,“Well that’s really too bad for you Ámbar because this is my job now. This is my job, I’m working and to let you know, I’m really proud of the work we do.”

Ámbar waits until the milk he’s pouring into a customer’s cup starts overflowing into the sink and Matteo rushes to clean up his mess before she calls out monotonously, “Yeah, seems really soul satisfying.” 

Hesitantly, the barista Ámbar had been checking out earlier eases toward them with furrowed brows, “Uh Matteo? How about I take over here and you cover getting the orders?” 

His expertise is emphasized with the way he handles himself, catching the fumbling styrofoam from the italian’s hands and twisting the metal faucet to drain the waste down the sink.

Slightly too eager than acceptable for a best friend, Ámbar ardently agrees with the brown haired boy. Ignoring the way Matteo glares daggers at her as she betrays him and nods towards his mess, simply explaining herself with, “It’s for the best.”

Ámbar’s not actually planning on initiating anything. She doesn't usually have to. When she was younger she used to hate the way she couldn’t blend into the background instantaneously like most teenagers. She couldn’t disappear into the ground when her godmother found her freshman year report card or camouflage into the navy lockers when the ‘too cool for school dances’ basketball player asked her to drink cheap beer with him in his dad’s mercedes-benz. Now she relishes in the way an entire room will turn to watch her entrance at any given event. So it’s safe to say she’s a little surprised when the barista focuses on swiping a cloth over the edges of the sink without looking up at her once.

She decides in that moment that interacting with him is more important than maintaining an illusion of aloofness, brushing off the act as non-committal and simple intrigue for the boy who’s seen her three times now and never hit on her once. 

She will find out, once it’s much too late to do anything about it, the actual reason behind her inception, “Sorry, I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.”

“Impossible,” he retorts without a second thought, the conviction in his words enough to surprise the both of them. The crinkles at the side of his mouth lift in the same way she watched them lift earlier that day when a little girl walked up to the cash register with her mom’s wallet and a demand for his biggest size of hot chocolate. 

“I can’t even blame him, with a girlfriend like you I would be distracted too.”

Ámbar waits until his eyes flick to hers to reply, “We’re not dating.”

“Oh?”

She shakes her head, the words that leave her mouth next are completely involuntary. 

“How about you? Everytime I come in you’re already here, I bet your girlfriend isn’t very happy about that,” Her voice comes out a little softer and rounded then she normally goes for but the attempt at coy is successful to say the least. Ámbar reminds herself to write that one down for future use later.

His scoff is lighthearted, “No girlfriend.”

“Pity,” Ámbar replies, her eyes glinting as she pushes down the flurry of nerves tangling themselves in the pit of her stomach.

His eyelashes flutter against the slope of his face, the hue of cotton candy sunset reflecting on his skin from the glass windows behind her.

“So,” he starts slowly, “if you’re not his girlfriend, why are you always accompanying him to work?"

The question catches her by surprise but she’s careful not to flinch or let it show on her face, tampering the initial response until purposeful nonchalance rushes over her body in a way that can only come with years of practice. 

She forces a grin, shrugging off the defensiveness, “Mostly moral obligation, can’t leave him alone in good conscience,” she wants to end the sentence there, knows that any more than that could tip the balances in his favour.. 

The truth is not something she gives willingly, it must be earned, fought for, and then, even after all that, clawed out of her cold dead hands. If there is one thing she has been taught from a very young age, it’s that lying and deflection are the only tools of armour one has to protect themselves against the world. Without them you are left bare and unmasked, unable to protect yourself as millions of eyes inspect and dissect your every flaw. You are left with the truth. 

And yet the thought of lying to him now, here, in this little bubble exempt from reality where the honey syrup is tooth-numbingly sweet, unlike the chalky organic raw honey left unopened in her cupboards, and the espresso is sharp and wince worthy not watered down, it feels wrong to speak into existence the lies waiting half-formed on her tongue. She knows the acidic taste it leaves in its wake and she’s decided a long time ago that she’d choose honey over it’s resentment anyday. So she won’t shatter this sanctity, not yet at least. She’d sprinkle a little truth first. Something to support the arches of this all-consuming dome, so when the storm finally hit, Ámbar would be a little less crushed. 

“And the coffee’s good, well, it’s good when you make it.”

When she’s here, Ámbar reminds herself, it’s an escape from her normal life. It’s almost like time stops. And what she does when time is stopped, doesn’t have consequences in the real world, the effects can’t possibly hurt her, because they cease to exist the second she steps out the door, the little bell at the top of the frame shattering the honesty she’s allowed to share when she’s here. 

She reminds herself of this as the boy’s eyes twinkle mirthfully and as he takes her vulnerability to deepen the conversation. She reminds herself of this when he reveals he’s in a band and asks her if she would mind if he played her their music. She reminds herself of this when he gets into a long winded discussion about new drink recipes because his family is coming to visit soon and he promised his sister to replicate the Lechitas Frías they used to drink as kids. She reminds herself of this as Matteo drives her home and all she can think about on the way there is a little boy with ruffled brown hair and tan skin sitting on the grainy sand by the waves, mouth smiling wide and bright and a little sticky with vanilla and cinnamon. She reminds herself of this as a picture of a mini Ámbar Smith at the same age, wearing a dress much too flouncy for her taste and sipping on a shirley temple to mimic her godmother, pops up in her head. 

She wonders if by taking these memories with her outside the café, she’s messing with the balance and security that comes with it. See that’s the problem with discovering webs of unfamiliar ventures, there are too many logistics to untangle which is especially dangerous when a knot can push you right into a mess of feelings and commitments. 

**v.**

His name is Simón Álvarez. Ámbar knows this because she’s spent her entire time on a date looking him up on her phone. She hasn’t looked up from her screen once since the afternoon has started but the rugged man in front of her doesn’t seem to mind much. She makes a note of it on her phone to ask him for his name once the picnic is over, Matteo would really nail home his point about her not putting in the effort on dates if he finds out she learned more from Simón’s wikipedia page than the actual human she was supposed to be talking to. 

Simón Álvarez. She wants to try out the name for herself. Wants to see how it feels on her lips, how it smooths around her tone of voice, but her date won’t stop fucking talking. His voice going hoarse from overuse. She thinks back to Simón’s voice. She wonders how he would sound speaking her name. Would it too be flush with bitterness? Or would it soothe her ears the same way his coffee did so her mind?

**vi.**

Instagram: Simón_Álvarez started following you. 

Ámbar stares at the notification on her phone until well after the screen goes dark again, until the jittery beating of her heart calms down and she can safely stop chewing on her lip without worrying about what idiotic grin is sure to emerge in it’s place.

**vii.**

In the end he’s the one who texts her first, sheepishly admitting that he resorted to asking Matteo for her number. He sends her video clips of his sister trying his newly perfected Lechitas Frías and thanks her for gifting him with the french white chocolate straws that apparently make all the difference in the drink. He sends voice messages bursting with melodic strings of a guitar and texts with a variety of lyrics he asks for her opinion on. She helps him choose stage outfits for his next performances and colour coordinates his look with his other bandmates. In return, he creates elaborate recipes for her to follow at home because she confessed one night that she needs a lot of pick me up’s when pulling all-nighters for her literature major and all coffee stores are closed.

His messages become something of a habit in Ámbar’s daily life and she finds herself spending more and more time looking forward to each one and contemplating different messages to send back. Her favorite moment, by far, happens in the middle of a hot January night, when the quiet of the darkness gets too overwhelming and she’s reminded of the way humidity and steam would press against her chest like a palpable weight when she was younger and still staying in her grandfather’s mansion. 

She forgets sometimes how lonely the night can be, too used to spending them hecticly chasing her classmates for their portion of a group project or going to a club swallowing shots like they’re oxygen and watching Matteo drastically fail at picking up girls way out of his league. The universe always finds a way to remind her though. It’s not long before another wave of thundering dread pushes its way through her veins and wraps like a barbed vine around her heart. This time is unlike the others. This time she has Simón Álvarez’s number in her contact list.

**viii.**

He picks up on the first ring. His voice sounds initially hushed and languid, overwhelming Ámbar with the wave of tranquility that crashes against her anxiety. First fighting for dominance until her demons retreat back into the caverns of her mind. She thinks about how he must look by now, drowsy and a little worn out but with his eyes still full of glimmering light. She hears the slight whispering of wind against flimsy tree branches and imagines Simón with his side to the moon, basking in it’s gentle glow, like an angel.

Ámbar steps lightly into the uncharted waters, giving him enough leeway to deny her these advances, “Hey, I didn’t wake you up did I?”

“Not even close,” he answers immediately, Ámbar feels herself relax deeper under her covers, her tight muscles alleviated from the sound of just three words. “I’m just working on a new song.”

She doesn’t know when they reached this point of emotional connection that Ámbar can listen to his voice so far away and recognize the slight trembles in his tone and the jagged edges of his words or what it means now that she does. She tries not to think too deeply about it.

“Are you stressed about it?” 

Her heart aches in time with the sigh Simón exhales at her question and she has to physically force herself to stop her brows from furrowing at his despaired tone as he explains, “A little, I need to have it ready to record by this weekend and I guess I’m just a little on edge about if I’ll finish in time, I was in the middle of practice now.”

Ámbar feels like kicking herself. Of course, he’s busy. He does have his own life after all. The scorn and self loathing that boils beneath her skin is expected but sickening nonetheless. Ámbar’s used to feeling like a hindrance in everyone else’s lives, the fact that she feels like one for Simón hurts her more than the general regret of her actions ever could. “Oh. I can call later if it’s a bad ti-”

“No!” And just like that, as soon as trepidation took over her body it vanished at double the speed. It was terrifying how much his words held power over her. At how much she was willing to hand over the power, fully knowing that such wholehearted faith could only ever end in splintered fractures. 

The emotional connection must be reciprocated on his half too because he seems to understand the residue turmoil sitting against her ribcage, still in need of reassurance, which he consoles with, “Talking to you always helps my creative process.” 

Ámbar can’t refrain from the hope wavering at the end of her sentence when she asks, “It does?”

His hum of confirmation thrums against her skin as she switches her phone to speaker and places it against her pillow, letting the vibrations replace what was once soundless.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ámbar reveals quietly. The words come out as naturally as if she was asking him about his favourite colour. Not at all like the bouldering weight that burdened her for so long.

Looking back on this night, she can see now that this was the first red flag. The beginning of the end, she recollects regretfully. She should have known by now that it’s impossible to recreate serenity in real life. That whatever world she built for herself in that cafe didn’t have the possibility to exist outside of it. That was a lesson, however, that would come to slap her in the face soon enough. 

Simón sounds slightly confused with an undertone of smug as he asks, “And you thought to call me?”

She makes a noise of agreement, letting the momentary rush of endorphins chase her fear of rejection, “I was wondering if you could sing to me.”

A surprised chuckle erupts from Simón, “Are you calling my music boring?” he retorts, fake wounded. Not even biting her thumb can stop Ámbar’s mouth from upturning around the flesh.

“Please,” she calls out sweetly in a voice that normally only ever comes out after 4 shots of vodka. She revels in the way his breath catches in his throat.

“Fine, but you owe. I don’t just give out these services for free,” he replies easily, humor curling around his voice. 

“You’re so pretentious,” Ámbar tells him, voice heavy with sleep and something else that she tells herself is annoyance and not the poorly masked affection that she feels deep down might be a more accurate description. “You’re the most pretentious part-time indie guitarist and part-time barista I know.”

“That’s why you like me so much,” he reminds her, his hand coming down on a guitar he must have picked up from beside him seconds earlier. His fingers begin strumming a familiar tune, inciting a mess of feelings that she, had she not been emotionally stunted and could _recognize_ her feelings, would refer to as safe and warm and steady. Feelings that one with a normal childhood might refer to as home.

She doesn’t reply to his statement, drifting off to sleep to the sound of his soft whispers, but she doesn’t need to, they both know that she does.

A voice slips quietly into her subconscious once she falls too deeply into a dream to fight it. A voice that echoes loudly against her skull the haunting message that maybe she doesn’t actually have standards too high for any male to reach. A voice that begs her to open her eyes to realize that she just hadn’t been looking in the right places. A voice that sounds eerily like the one she recognizes as her own if only she had never been taught to repress and deny.

**ix.**

When the inevitable finally comes to, the closing act is a lot less explosive than Ámbar expected it to be. Nothing like the slow taut buildup developing the weeks prior. It feels unproportional, actually, for something so immersive and enchanting to break apart by something so mundane. 

It happens the first time Ámbar decides to walk to the coffee shop alone, on a day when she knows Matteo isn’t working. She’s not quite sure on what she’s planning to say when she gets there, but she thinks the sole act of walking there without the comfort of an excuse says more about what she thinks than words could ever describe. 

She feels a type of giddiness walking up the stone steps that she had once thought was meant to disappear once you passed a certain age. It’s this place, she reminds herself, the simple brick store that seemed to exude tranquility. Where just taking one step inside was enough to peel back layer by layer the honesty she protected so close to her heart and inhaling the scent of fresh ground coffee beans surged her with bravery and courage. Enough courage to want. To want so deeply and to wish on every star she finds until she’s nothing more than an instrument for nerves and anticipation and desire to play within. She’s never wanted like this. Never had want cloud her every judgement and responsibility. 

She thinks maybe that is enough. Maybe, all she’s ever needed to do was to simply want strong enough. 

Want something, not because it would make her more popular among her peers or because she thinks it might help her live up to her godmother’s standards but instead, want for herself. Want for her happiness. 

Except, that would be too easy. And the universe wants nothing more than to make things hard for Ámbar.

When she spots a pretty brunette with long wavy hair lifting her hips against the counter to talk idly into Simón’s ear, Ámbar feels her hope evaporate a little. She doesn’t understand why it does. There’s no clear evidence that they’re anything more than friends and he’s already said he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but, they look so comfortable. No emerging waves of tension or hesitance crawling up against either of their spines, no abrupt pauses in conversation or awkward floating hands unsure of where was considered neutral territory. No, Simón felt fine placing a hand over shoulders to reach across her for a refill of straws and brushing up against her to maneuver past the cash register. 

Just because he doesn’t have a girlfriend doesn’t mean he doesn’t want one, one that isn’t her. 

The brunette is no competition for Ámbar, Ámbar who held the record among her friends for being asked out thirteen times in a single night at a bar, Ámbar who won ‘best hair’, ‘best dressed’ and ‘best eyes’ in her senior year yearbook, Ámbar who knew in her heart she couldn’t let go of what could be between her and Simón.

And yet here she was. Standing awkwardly at the open door stuck between the world she was beginning to doubt was anything more than a mirage of who she desired to be, _a bubble slowly deforming on itself, crumbling under the very new very real life conflicts being thrown it’s way,_ and reality.

She struggles to swallow around the painful lump in her throat. She can’t form the words she wants to say. The cruel ones she could spit to the brunette and use to manipulate the girl far away from her sanctuary. The heartfelt ones she could divulge to Simón, the ones she should have said during that night phone call, to admit the truth she had already known but wanted to deny. She tries, tries to take a step inside, tries to be real and vulnerable for one last time, but she can’t. Instead she walks back home. 

She tells herself she’s not disappointed, that this is just another boy and she’ll get over him just as she has in the past. 

Besides, Ámbar is always wanting what she can’t have. This is just another addition to that list.

**xi.**

Ámbar will never admit to Matteo that she’s proud of him.

His self-confidence and ego is already too enlarged without her addition of compliments. Sometimes though, she will come across a new post of his on instagram. One with him and a girl, one with him and his friends, one with him at a party, and no matter the location or company, he seems content.

Not the temporary kind of happiness that’s as subtle as a fleeting breeze, only noticeable during times of regret and self-reflection. No, he’s more of the loud kind of happy, the obnoxious kind where passersby will turn their heads to scoff at the young group of boisterous adults acting like they still have the freedom and blooming freshness of kids. 

She thinks it has to do with the way he chases so genuinely for things that make him happy. Following a kind of moronic ideology where he believes that no obstacle is too troublesome or consequence too harrowing to obstruct his path to a final goal.

This sort of ambition used to unify them as teenagers, when they would spend their entire afternoons hunting down interviews and internships and significant others that would raise their status and prestigious friends that would get them into the few exclusive places their parents couldn’t already access. Now that Ámbar is older, she’s beginning to realize that, though similar at first glance, their drive isn’t made up of the same gears. 

Ámbar doesn’t chase after what she wants the same way he does. She chases after what she knows she can get. She thinks there’s a very important distinction between the two.

**xi.**

Matteo meets a girl. Matteo meets a girl, and he thinks that she could be ‘The One’.

The act itself of him declaring this so strongly and out of the blue is outlandish enough to peak her interest and negate any real arguments about her own recent experiences with feelings of heartbreak.

This is how she finds herself accompanying him to the coffee shop, surely to be third-wheeling the entire time as Matteo attempts to introduce this new girl to her. This is the second time that she’s stepping inside on a day where Matteo isn’t working, she reminds herself repentant, the second time she’s breaking one of her only rules regarding the place she has recently started calling the purgatory.

She’s surprised to see it crowded. More crowded than it ever had been in the past months of her visiting. Ámbar tells herself it’s for the best, this way she can avoid narrowly bumping into Simón and fumbling through what she’s sure to be the most awkward conversation she’s had to date. _And there have been many_. 

Her reasoning still doesn’t quell the jarring feeling that she’s lost something precious and unknown to the hands of the public. Ámbar struggles not to choke on the thick air as the store’s atmospheric magic is destroyed right in front of her.

Instead she tells herself to focus on Matteo’s new mystery girl, a task that becomes less and less difficult to perform as they reach their destination. A small table at the very left end, next to the floor to ceiling windows but still isolated from the traffic of the store and far far away from the barista counter, awaits them. 

Ámbar briefly wonders if this was Matteo’s doing, consciously putting space between her and Simón having felt the tension between them during Ámbar’s last visit, or if this is just another coincidence manufactured from the gods above trying to make her life hell for whatever misconduct she must have committed in a past life. It’s not until she sees the same brown beachy waves that she had envisioned once in a nightmare that she decides it’s definitely the work of vengeful gods, nothing else could explain such a drastic turn of events.

“Hi! It’s nice to finally meet you! Ámbar, right? Matteo told me so much about you!”

Ámbar doesn’t bother hiding her grimace as she sharply expresses, “Really? He told me nothing about you.”

**xii.**

“What the fuck was that?” Matteo interrogates as soon as Ámbar’s manicured hand forcibly closes the baby blue door of his car.

“What was what?” She blinks back nonchalantly. 

The temper and exasperation in his tone catches her by surprise as he accuses, “Don’t do that Ámbar, I’m not an idiot you can confuse into submission. Gaslighting isn’t going to work on me.”

Ámbar finds herself unable to respond at first, replaying his words and the hurt meaning behind them as she reflects. She hadn’t even been that mean this time. The girl, Luna, _what a disgustingly accurate name_ , hadn’t even responded to her microaggressions. No tears, yelling or physical altercations had broken out, call her old fashioned but Ámbar declares that a decent introduction. 

Matteo, however, seems to disagree. His ears turning more and more red as Ámbar fiddles to find an excuse. When she falls short of one she answers instead with, “I’m sorry.”

The statement she scarcely uses doesn’t even seem to make an impression on Matteo who has already started driving at a speed higher than acceptable fueled by his storm of fury.

“I told you how important this was for me,” he states instead. 

His act of bystepping her sincere apology pisses her off enough for Ámbar to decide she’s going to play with fire a little, “It didn’t even go that badly, calm down.”

She really doesn’t understand what has Matteo so strained. Though she had kept her tone clipped and her questions deliberate throughout the lunch, she made sure to keep her passive aggressiveness at a minimum. Seeing Luna there, while initially irksome, was a good thing. It meant that she too had feelings, with whatever intent, for Matteo. Matteo, not Simón.

“I wanted you guys to get along!”

_Was he really still going on about this?_

“You’re acting like we got into an argument the entire time.” Ámbar retorts, substantially less aggressively than Matteo.

Ámbar’s eyes are now glued to Matteo’s, watching for any sign that could explain his excessive lashing out.

“Do you know how hard it was to convince Luna to meet you?”

Ámbar nearly scoffs at the boy. How dare he act like she was some kind of nuisance he had to force other parts of his life to cooperate with. 

“I’m sorry I’m so inconvenient,” Ámbar mutters bitterly. 

Matteo barely pays a speck of attention her way, instead continuing his rant, “And now she’s forever going to be convinced that all of my friends are going to be like you.”

Ámbar glares bullets into the side of Matteo’s head. “Like me?” She questions, daring him to take the bait.

He does, without blinking. “Judgemental, egotistic, and prejudice.”

Her fuse runs short the moment he finishes,“Fuck you!” Her exclamation is louder than intended if the flinch Matteo expresses is anything to go by but it does a good job at representing the blood flowing straight to her head and up her throat. 

His gaze is steady as he turns to face her for a split second while responding, “Well you didn’t prove her wrong now did you?” before returning it to the road.

The moment of eye contact revealing a broken layer of vulnerability hits Ámbar with a rush of guilt so strong it’s easier to mistake it as rage. 

“Stop acting like your on a fucking moral pedestel Matteo. Especially since the actual reason behind you working is for a random girl you saw like once before. And all this time you acted like this was some huge act of rebellion against your parents and the hypocritical society they represent!” Her words are harsh and venomous and she hopes to have a lasting effect on Matteo, at least enough so to break him out of whatever asshole state he is in currently. She’s not sure it’ll work though, she hopes he doesn’t notice the empty force behind them.

“She’s not just a random girl!”

Good. He didn’t. She seems to have struck a nerve instead. 

“You don’t get to run away from your responsibilities and play pretend at a coffee shop and suddenly come back to me like you’re no longer affiliated with your old life.”

She uses the same tone her chastising godmother would use on her when she came home too late from school on days where studying at the library couldn’t be used as sufficient excuses and barely controls the goosebumps that rise on her skin at the familiar sound.

“Right. Cause that’s not what you're doing with my coworker right?”

Ámbar prays Matteo doesn’t notice the way she stiffens at his accusation. 

“That’s different,” she states sternly, as if the use of forceful articulation will strengthen the increasingly thinning rope of pretenses. 

Suddenly playing along isn’t so fun anymore. 

“Is it?” Matteo says smirking, not unkindly. 

He might as well have though with the way Ámbar bites back, “Of course it is, I'm not under the illusion that things will work out between us because I know that we’re from different worlds.”

“Huh,” is his only response.

“What?” Ámbar asks, warning bells ringing loudly in her ears as she does so.

“It seems to me,” Matteo starts slowly, pulling up at the driveway of her house as he does so, “that the only difference between you and I, is that you’re too much of a coward to actually go for anything.”

Ámbar barely manages to swallow a deep-rooted gasp, let alone come up with an actual answer. She manually unlocks the door on her side and makes her way out of the seat with any remaining dignity Matteo has yet to strip her of.

“Luna makes me happy Ámbar, that’s more important to me than the bullshit roles we were fed by our parents.”

She rolls her eyes, only a little pissed off at his exponentially pointed speech, and steps out of the car. “Grow up Matteo-”

“No. I think this time you’re the one who has to grow up. Call me when you’re ready to actually try.”

**xiii.**

The next morning is one filled with revelations, an awakening, one might call it. Despite having slept fewer hours than ever reasonable, the sleep, and argument leading up to the sleep, had allowed her to see things in a new light. Seeing Luna and Matteo together, Matteo bright eyed and bushy tailed as he announced her as his girlfriend with Luna watching him a little meekish and a lot giggly, Ámbar was no longer able to deny the existence of love and romance. Ámbar, even in her dreams, thought about the prospect for the rest of the night. Comparing relationships she’s had in the past, and juxtaposing them to the relationships she’d witnessed growing up.

She came to the conclusion that love, using the term loosely, couldn’t be chased after as a temporary expedition. She couldn’t use the thoughts as a vacation from her life. And the feeling was rather useless when regarded as just that, because with the way people went about spending their entire lives searching for love or ditching everything they knew and ever respected for love meant that it had to be more than just a feeling. If she ever wanted to actually experience love and see what the big fuss was for herself then she had to actually go and do something about it. So she does. 

She ignores her trembling fingers as they type out the words on her phone and musters up every ounce of the false bravado she’s so used to commonly using in situations much less important than this one. 

(10:03 am)

Ámbar: Hey, can we talk?

Even after hearing the beep signifying a response an entire quarter hour later, she still leaves her phone right side down on her nightstand and makes her way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only looking at her screen once she’s completely finished with the bitter leaves. Ámbar’s unsure if the new wave of nerves as she makes contact with her phone is from the possibility of rejection or the thought that she’s going to have to become a tea person now if Simón decides to stop being her personal coffee machine. 

(10:18 am)

Simón: I’m free any time after 5. Coffeeshop?

**xiv.**

The lip gloss was a bad idea. 

When she had straightened her hair and left it free flowing in preparation of the confrontation, she hadn’t taken into consideration that wearing the lip gloss Jazmín once stated made her lips look like ‘kissable pouty cotton candy clouds’ would cause such a mess when met with the heavy wind. 

She looks in the glass window next to the door to fix her appearance one last time before walking in. 

Her want has manifested it’s way past the small compartment she’d set aside for it in her mind and instead found a home subtly aching against her chest at all time. It tightens as her heartbeat quickens and she makes eye contact with Simón’s figure.

He’s standing rigidly at a private table he must have already decided they’re going to sit at and she catches the way his fingers brush against the side of the two coffee cups he’s holding as he takes her in. 

His first words to her are both a little tense and relieved as he hands over one of the cups, “Are you ready to stop avoiding me?”

She takes a sip of the still hot beverage and decides the entire day has been worth it if only for the current concoction of tastes currently dancing on her tongue. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” she ultimately answers.

Ámbar has imagined and rehearsed this scenario many times in her head within the few hours she had before the real thing. She thinks back quickly to how in 19 of those 43 different situations she gets too defensive too quickly and burns their bridge faster than she can consciously notice and stop her bad habit. She’s determined to make sure that doesn’t happen and reconsider her response, “I’m sorry for ignoring your calls and not dropping by, I just- I was thinking.”

“Thinking.” He repeats with a soft sigh, his mutter holding a pure fondness and exasperation that Ámbar doesn’t think has ever been used on her before.

“Do you like me?” She blurts out before she can dismiss the thought.

He lets out a hum, as if he’s thinking the question over, but it doesn’t fill her with the immediate dread it once would have. Not since his eyes hadn’t drifted from hers a single time from the moment she stepped into the cafe. She thinks she knows his answer just through that. 

Instead of being straightforward though he settles on asking her back, “Do _you_ like _me_?”

“I asked first,” she refuses mulishly.

“You know that coffee I made for you on that first day,” she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear during his pause for dramatization as she nods and his gaze follows the movement of her hand before he smiles shyly to himself and continues, “I did it because as soon as I saw you walking into the store I knew I had to do something to get your attention, no matter how much of a longshot it might be.”

Her face grows hot, both from his words and her efforts to not smile so widely at them, “It wasn’t a longshot.”

“And you?” he nods, a bit hesitant if not eager to finally get an answer.

“I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” The words come out harsh, like they are a curse and not a confession. She barely manages to get them out, but once she does the look of relief washing over his face makes her feel all the more sorry for not saying anything earlier.

“So you and Luna?” She tries to add this key topic into the conversation while still maintaining a cool composure. She’s not sure it works. It also confuses her that he doesn’t seem surprised by the fact that she knows who Luna is. She makes a note to self to ask Matteo about it. “You two aren’t anything?”

Simón smiles like he was expecting the question but finding it amusing that she asked it anyway. “She’s just a friend.” 

“She better be.”

His eyebrows rise at that, “She better be?”

_Shit, did she say that out loud?_ Oh god she even applied extra blush that morning, she really hopes her entire face hasn’t flushed red already.

“I just mean it’s good. You know, friendship, and all that.” The wild gesturing isn’t any contribution to her attempt at redemption.

She knows for a fact that Simón is smarter than he looks but he’s also kind enough to not point out her very clear fumbling, and she’s never been more grateful for the fall of a peaceful silence that settles over them.

“So, are we done with the confessing feelings thing?” She really hopes so, as much as today has been enlightening she’d quite prefer this vulnerability to be over with now.

This time she swears she sees actual twinkles in Simón’s eyes as he answers, “Mmm, no.”

“No?” Ámbar frowns. 

“I have one more question,” he says, leaning forward, his expressions softening while his eyes sharpen. She would feel dread about the upcoming matter if she didn’t trust him so much to stray carefully along her boundaries.

“Now that you’re done being headstrong and oblivious, can I finally take you out on a date?” 

Her heart skips. She chokes on a laugh.

Ámbar is in a state of dismay, “I’m not oblivious.” She knows the other point can’t be argued.

“Oh believe me, you’re definitely oblivious if you were still questioning my feelings for you.”

She thinks there are some very valid points he makes in that statement. None that she’ll actually admit to though, instead she creates an excuse. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not from lack of trying.” 

There’s a genuine note of regret in his voice that Ámbar wants to erase as soon as she hears it.

“I didn't give you much opportunity did I?” She thinks back to all the conversations she side-tracked them from to avoid sensitive subjects about herself while Simón poured his heart out.

Cocking his head thoughtfully he seems to come to a realization that eases the remorse on his face, “Well we have time now, don’t we?”

Her response has never been faster, “Yes. all the time in the world.”

Because she would like to go on a date, a date that could lead to more things to come. Like, eventually being his girlfriend. She thinks she’d be really good at that, and even if she’s not she wants to learn, wants to try. It almost knocks her over sideways how much she wants to.

**xv.**

(6:44 pm)

Ámbar: I talked to Simón

(6:45 pm)

Matteo: And?

Ámbar: It went well

Matteo: And?

(6:46 pm)

Ámbar: We’re going on our first official date tomorrow

Matteo: And?

(6:48 pm)

Ámbar: And you were right

Matteo: I told you so

Ámbar: So, we’re good now?

Matteo: If you broke off our friendship every time I was wrong about something then we never would have even made it through first grade

(6:51 pm)

Matteo: So does this mean we can go on double dates now?

**Author's Note:**

> So, this writing method (style? it's not really a style but method's not the right word either) is super choppy and it totally ignores the "show don't tell" rule that every english teacher ever has taught me so sorry to my mentors but like, honestly, i'm kind of digging it. I actually like a lot how the events can change based on a character's perspective so story telling like this was really interesting because I kept referring to my general outline of events and changing them based off what Ambar in her current mindset would take away from the encounter. Also my interpretation of Ambar is very loose and unstructured because this is a world completely alternate from the one in the show since Ambar actually finishes her teenagehood and the beginning of her young adult life without the contribution of Luna and Simon (well actually it's because this is my au and I can do whatever I want but I guess you could use that reason as well)
> 
> Matteo took a bigger part of this story than I initially intended. So did the pony. The pony was supposed to be a throwaway line. I don't know why he's literally a second main character for me at this point of my rereads. Like I'd rate the characters in this story based off importance as 1) Ambar, 2) The pony, 3) Matteo and 4) Simon. Oh wow. I wrote a simbar fic where Simon is less mentioned than a pony. OH NO. I wrote a simbar fic where Simon is less mentioned than Matteo. I've hit a new rock bottom.
> 
> Anyways I was hoping for a little bit of a lighter read because I've officially reached exam season for my junior year of school and things have looking bleek. I made myself physically laugh out loud twice throughout the writing of this story so I self aclaim myself a winner of my fictional challenge. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed, as always, I have a tumblr (theuniversezecho) where you can reach me with your ideas, prompts or suggestions! 
> 
> p.s. I know you don't technically swallow oxygen but that's the word choice I decided to use and I'm going to stand by it.


End file.
